


Swirly Blankets and a Mug Full of Hot Strong Love

by ZandraGorin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-War, Comfort, Established Relationship, M/M, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:21:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,224
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23027722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZandraGorin/pseuds/ZandraGorin
Summary: Mornings are always better when they're both home.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 107





	Swirly Blankets and a Mug Full of Hot Strong Love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AhaMarimbas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhaMarimbas/gifts).



> Inspired by [AhaMarimbas](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AhaMarimbas/pseuds/AhaMarimbas)' prompt on mental illness. Quite a loose interpretation, if I were to say so, but I hope it still somewhat tickles your fancy. It's my first time to actually write something for someone else's prompt and I'm sweating buckets just posting this but it was almost cathartic writing it. Thank you for the prompt, AhaMarimbas.^^
> 
> On a very different note, for anyone out there who's struggling and needs to hear this: you are loved, you are not weak, you are not your illness, and it's okay to break down sometimes. People have different ways of coping and handling mental health issues but please, don't be afraid to seek help. It is not a sign of weakness and the people who _really matter _will never look down on you for reaching out. Chin up, you. One day at a time.__

He should have seen it coming, Harry thinks, as he blinks a little less dazedly than a few minutes ago and tries to go over just exactly what’s happened here. He’s sat on the floor, leaning against the couch. There’s a warm blanket bundled around him— its well-loved edges are worn and the faded colors of the swirly patterns scattered all over the center only furthers the evidence of its age. It has a nice, crisp, citrus-y smell that gently coaxes Harry’s consciousness into being and does wonders in subduing the icy chill that has been running through his now exhausted body.

He knows what’s happened, of course. Knows it by the way his chest seems tighter, by the way his arms and legs are stiffer, by the way his vision is still a bit blurry even with his glasses on, by the way his body is giving little shivers that echo the earlier trembling that shook him from the tiny corners of his mind to the little nerves of his toes.

It’s not often that he finds himself in similar situations but it’s often enough that Harry’s familiar with the aftermath.

The muscles in his legs give a feeble attempt at a twitch. Everything feels like lead. Which probably explains why he’s on the floor.

“You’d be better off up there but I thought it best not to move you just yet.”

_Good call_ , Harry thinks.

He’s still feeling a bit unsteady but he’s slowly and surely coming back to himself. Slowly, because it takes a whole minute before Harry even realizes that he’s alone in the room again, as if the distance of the voice talking to him isn’t already a dead give-away. There’s someone puttering in the background and the familiar noise of clinking glass along with the soft _thuds_ of the cupboards opening and closing and the light, rhythmic footsteps are as good anchors as any— solid lifelines that he can grasp and steady himself with.

He draws a shaky breath and clutches the blanket around him just a bit tighter.

“Bloody—oh for the love of— now that’s just _disgusting_ —”

Harry’s ears perk at the tirade of colorful words coming from where he thinks is the kitchen and a spot of curiosity starts to trickle in and thaw his limbs. When the noises continue and are now accompanied by overly-dramatic gagging (only interrupted by the occasional incantations of household spells), the urge to see what’s causing all the ruckus in his kitchen has grown from a low buzz of interest to almost irresistible curiosity.

He untangles his limbs, stands up on surprisingly steady legs and, body still wrapped around the comforting smell of the blanket, ventures into the kitchen.

The flurry of movement and sound and smell assaults Harry’s senses as he steps into the entry way and he has to pause to gather his wits about him. There are plates and cups hovering over the sink, all covered in suds, being washed and polished by invisible hands. There are wrappers and empty cartons sailing through the air from the different corners of the room straight into the open bin by the counter. There’s a trash bag walking on unseen legs, marching itself to its designated place while dutifully sealing itself along the way.

It’s a whirlwind of chaos as his kitchen rights itself. And in the middle of all this chaos is Draco Malfoy.

Draco, who is apparently still unaware that he has company, has his mouth all but pouting in consternation and his eyes narrowed in concentration as he directs the flow of food products in and out of the _stasis box_. Or so he says it should be called because he refuses to acknowledge its proper name and ‘ _Isn’t that what it’s for, anyway?’._ When a questionable looking _something_ makes its way out of the fridge, Draco’s eyes widen in horror before he hurriedly bins the thing and casts an air-freshening charm to boot. The scent hits Harry’s nose like a tickling charm and he scrunches his nose before, unable to reign the blasted thing in, he sneezes.

The room stills when Draco visibly startles, but it only takes a few seconds before the kitchen carries on making itself presentable again.

“Oh,” Draco sounds and looks surprised to see Harry there. Funny, because if anyone here is supposed to be surprised, Harry reckons it should probably be him. “Hello.”

As it is, Harry’s not as surprised as he is to find Draco here— not with the blanket that’s currently still wrapped around his shoulders. “You’re cleaning,” he says, throat feeling a bit raspy.

Draco quips an eyebrow, as if to say _way to state the obvious, Potter._ “I am.”

Harry ambles into the room and deposits himself into the nearest, empty chair. There’s a mop swaying in the corner that’s repeatedly going back and forth a solitary stain that Harry knows has been a fixture there for as long as he can remember, but it looks like the old thing’s not going to give up without a fight. “I wasn’t expecting you home today.”

Draco looks at him, and his face is doing something Harry doesn’t even know how to describe. Harry likes to call it his thinking face but Draco disagrees. Not that that’s anything new. Draco waves his wand and the _stasis box_ closes with a light thud before he answers, “I would have been home earlier but the Thimbleworth only blooms at the beginning of every month and I needed to stock up.”

There are two mugs on the counter top, sitting away from the self-cleaning dishes, and Draco sends both flying smoothly to the table. Harry peers inside the one that’s settled in front of him, makes a pleased noise at the discovery, and proceeds to take an experimental sip. The hot chocolate warms him from his stomach to each fiber of his strained muscles, and Harry feels himself start to relax. He hasn’t even realized just how tense he’s been the past few days.

“Feeling better?”

Harry considers this for a moment before answering. “Better,” he decides. “Thanks.”

Alright, so he still feels a bit on edge, but he tends to feel like that whenever shit like this happens. The hot chocolate helps though, as it always does. Besides, he really _is_ feeling better. At the very least, better than he was feeling this morning.

Because this morning, this morning Harry had woken up feeling out of sorts and sluggish and downright awful— with a headache that had only steadily grown worse as the day progressed until it was an overactive bludger banging against his skull.

Because this morning, Draco still hadn’t returned from his mini-trip and a small Draco-sized hole had started to form in Harry’s chest in his prolonged absence.

It’s not like Harry isn’t used to Draco’s extended trips by now, and he knows that they’re a necessary and unavoidable part of his job, but that doesn’t mean he’ll ever get used to missing the sodding prat and wishing he’s there beside Harry and cuddling him to death—breathing against Harry’s neck, head slotted neatly in that little crook of shoulder and jaw as if the spot was carved especially for him, arms and legs thrown over Harry as if to make up for his tendency to hog the blankets.

This morning Harry did not have blanket shortage problems.

This morning, Harry had dragged himself out of bed like he has been doing for the past few days. He’d trudged through the steadily growing pile of clothes on their bedroom floor and through the unpaired shoes littered across the living room to make his way into the kitchen to maybe put the kettle on before he’d chug down a pain potion for his throbbing head. But the kettle had been in the sink— as it had been sitting there for days— along with a stack of dishes and teacups and cutlery, and Harry had taken one look at the godawful pile and a resounding _not today_ had sounded in his head, bouncing along the lines of his skull amplifying the headache that had grown so bad his eyes had started to sting and he’d thought he might just sick up.

He didn’t sick up. No, what happened, he thinks, was much worse.

Harry takes a long sip of his hot chocolate, relishing in the way the sweetness coats his mouth.

It’s better now though.

Because now, now Draco’s finally back. He’s here and Harry’s covered in his scent and the air is filled with Draco’s magic—warm and safe and friendly— and yes, _yes_ , Harry is feeling so much better.

“How bad was it?” he hears himself ask as he absentmindedly traces a swirl over his left arm.

Draco shrugs, takes a sip of his tea, and looks at Harry with kind eyes that melt whatever icy feeling is left in his chest. “Nothing a bit of magic can’t tidy up.”

Harry’s eyes wander from the dishes that are piled by the sink— they’re clean now, and dry, and are apparently having a disagreement as to their places in the rack— to the small trash bags by the corner and he refrains from visibly flinching. He doesn’t recall the kitchen being so untidy a few days ago, and sure Harry hasn’t been cleaning after himself as frequently as he should have been but… 

Draco frowns into his cup. “I shouldn’t have agreed to a trip that long. Next time I’ll—“

“No,” Harry’s shaking his head before Draco can even finish his sentence. “No, don’t you dare.”

“Harry—”

“I can handle it. It was just—” Harry eyes dart to the calendar by the kitchen door— the last thing he remembers looking at before he found himself on the living room floor— and his gaze lingers only for a few heartbeats before it darts back to his mug of hot chocolate. “Just a bad morning.”

Draco catches where Harry’s looked and his eyes widen in comprehension.

It hasn’t been as bad as this morning for a while.

Ever since he quit the Aurors. Ever since they’d move in together. Ever since him and Draco. Ever since _Draco_.

This morning though, a passing glance at the date was all it took to send him spiraling into cold sweat and short breaths and pounding heartbeats and shaky limbs.

“Bad morning,” Draco trails off, finger tracing the rim of his mug without looking away from Harry. He hesitates before trudging on, careful. Always so careful. “Or bad couple of mornings?”

Harry stiffens. His leg starts to bounce almost rhythmically. “Mornings are always better when you’re here.”

Draco sends him a look that’s only further softened by the tentative brush of pale fingers against his. Harry’s shoulders sag and his leg settles.

They’ve always been bad at using words. He knows this. Draco knows this. But as the years spent together passed, they’ve discovered that they’re not actually at all _that_ bad with communicating with each other. Not when the words they want to say are weaved into light touches, firm grips, feet tangled together. Fingers carding through hair. Mouths and tongues and bodies dancing in syncopated beats.

Warm, open, welcoming arms.

A steady heartbeat underneath trembling fingers.

Long, deep breaths guiding short, terrified gasps.

The calming scent of citrus taming the trembles of a body— a body so deeply imprinted with years upon years of battle-earned scars— that echo past fears and pain and terrors so devastating that Harry thinks sometimes, sometimes it threatens to consume him.

Like this morning.

Draco squeezes his hand. “I’m here now.”

Like this morning. When Harry had seen the bold letters of _May_ atop the calendar and the throbbing in his head had exploded until it had become a ringing in his ears, until it had fallen like a veil and clouded his vision, until it had squeezed the air out of his lungs, until it had siphoned the cold sweat out of his body and made him shudder so violently that Harry had crumpled to the ground in a ball of gasps and tears and heart being ripped out of his chest.

And then all of a sudden— as if Harry’s wordless cries had somehow reached out and snatched him from whatever corner of the world he’s been lurking in— Draco’s there, wrapping Harry in his favorite blanket and gently coaxing him back with his citrus scent and warm, sure hands, and touches of comfort and understanding and home. Draco helps Harry close up the old wounds that have re-opened in his mind until they’re nothing but scars again. And when Harry’s breathing finally matches his own, Harry allows Draco to hold him just a bit closer until Harry’s fingers are warm and his heartbeat is steady and slow.

Draco holds Harry until he’s feeling better.

Just like how he’s feeling now.

“You are,” Harry answers, his mouth twitching into a smile.

They sip their respective beverages, fingers still entwined, until the mop in the corner finally gives in and drops to the floor, defeated. Harry snorts into his mug, flicks a finger and rights the old thing against the wall. He's awarded with Draco's amused smile, and yes, Harry's feeling loads better.

Draco’s home. They’re both home. And the hot chocolate is just a bonus.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, all Harry Potter canon characters belong to JKR.
> 
> Thank you for reading! Comments/Kudos make my day.:) Holler at me on [tumblr](http://zandragorin.tumblr.com/)! :D


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